How I wanna go

“It’s probably gonna get pretty environmentally bad. So, we probably have a couple years left on Earth. How do you want to go?”

I know how I’m gonna die. You’re gonna walk me to death. I’m just going to wear away, trying to keep up with you. I’ll keep getting smaller and smaller as I wear away. Pretty soon you’ll be looking down on me. Eventually you’ll just put wheels on the bottom of my feet and tie a string around my neck and pull me along.

“I could suck you to death.”

Maybe you are. You’re looking younger, I’m getting older, yet we’re on the same journey. You look alien, you know. You’re the bastard offspring of Spock and an errant elf.

Yes, I’d like to go painlessly, or during a climax. I’d go BOOM. Wake up on the Other Side, think I’m in the same place, feeling good.

“The tingle of the Afterlife.”

At my funeral, when you cremate me, I want a bale of marijuana burned with me. I want the smoke floated inside the church, so everybody gets stoned.

And after, at the wake, you can put little piles of my ashes on the sideboard with little straws, to snort. And before you burn me, you’re gonna remove a good section of my back skin and cure it, tan it, and you’re gonna bind my final book of poetry in it. Cripples will crawl from thousands of miles away, to kiss my poetry and be cured.